First years in the ghetto

12/29/09




The mornings are still the worse. I wake up imagining her waking up next too someone else. I have a cup of coffee, get dressed and drive to work thinking about her the whole time. I get to work and I start to cheer up. Not because I’m at work, but because I am around people. They are a distraction to me.

Around 10, I start to see some of my friends online. We will chat throughout the day. She always seems to message me at the right time. It’s like she knows I need a little boost and she’ll send me a little note. Who needs antidepressants when you’ve got a friend like her.





78-83

I always felt like I was in competition with older popular kids growing up. I was fine till we moved to Rialto. Before that I already knew the better looking, better dressed kids were treated a little better then the rest of us. It wasn’t really the teachers, but the other kids. The good looking ones stuck together. The kids from the well off families stuck together. The poor kids like me and my friends stuck together. We would be the one’s whose money was stolen, our homework torn up on the way to school. It didn’t really bother me then.

We moved to Fontana first, another travel trailer in a shitty trailer park on Valley Blvd. It was summer so I didn’t have to worry about school. My dad kept telling us our house wasn’t ready yet. He said we bought a house and it was still being finished. I had to go to the bathroom outside behind the trailer.

We moved to Rialto into a house with another family from San Pedro. They had a son; I shared a room with him. We would play with his Star Wars toys. I wore his clothes. I didn’t have any of my own. We left everything in San Pedro. He was a couple inches shorter and a little fatter then me.

School started. I was the new kid who dressed funny. I was a target from the get go. I sat and played alone at recess. I ate my lunch alone. No one ever talked to me. Then I pissed my pants and that ruined it for ever.

We moved out of John’s house. We had our own house. I had my own room. There weren’t any wheels and a tow bar attached. It was a real fucking house. My bus stop was different. That’s where the popular kids let it be known that I was not accepted. One kid in particular really didn’t want me around. His name was Rich. He liked to punch me in the stomach and spit at me. The other kids laughed. I didn’t care. Fuck Rich and those assholes. I sat in the back and plotted my revenge. I never did anything, but the thoughts were there.

During Show and Tell the kids would bring interesting toys from home and show all of us. This is when I started my storytelling. I made up stories about going to far off places on my vacations. I’m pretty sure the teachers knew it was all bullshit, but the other kids ate it up.

My parents started sending me to therapy. I had to walk to his office every Wednesday after school. I walked with some kid named Mark Vander something or other. I would basically follow him. He was going the same way so why not walk together? After the third time he told me flat out he didn’t like me and I should find someone else to walk with. I walked alone after that.

The therapist would always ask if anyone was touching me in special places. He liked to ask about the books I was reading. He would tell me I just wanted to be accepted and loved. No shit. I already knew that.

After the appointments I would walk home. It took an hour and a half to walk home. It was usually dark by the time I got home. I asked my mom if she could give me a ride. She told me she was too busy taking care of my sister. I stopped going. Seven years old and walking around Rialto at night no longer appealed to me. I told my dad I didn’t want to go anymore. He agreed.

I started going to daycare after school. I was older then everyone by at least three years. It wasn’t very fun. They made me take a nap. I asked why I have to go there. I’m too busy with your sister, its better if you go, you’ll get some attention. I though about asking why she just doesn’t give me attention, but I though better of it.